


Siren Song

by ivynights (incantatem)



Category: Casino Royale (2006), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incantatem/pseuds/ivynights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe drowning wouldn't be so bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren Song

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm preeetty sure (fingers crossed at least) that my girl Vesper's in the opening credits. Check out 0:46 seconds in. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OGmxoKJ-ee0 Your thoughts?
> 
> I might expand on this later, but just wanted to try this bit out for now...

He doesn't remember the fall, but he remembers drowning. Water rushing into his lungs as blood poured out of his skin. His eyes were wide open, but everything was murky.

Everything- until he saw her. Pale skin turned blue-green, dark hair fanning out in ripples, like tendrils drawing close to pull him further under. His own private siren.

Vesper. 

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, death by water. It's been a few years now, and she's never really left him. Bond is far from a religious man, but if they could in some way be reunited down with Davy Jones. Both victims to the machinations of world power shifts and shady deals, tides turning in more than one way. If they could reunite... it just might be worth it.

For a second, he hears her laugh and sees a dark shadow flit around him. Long dark hair reaches down and fingers grasp his arm, firm and smooth.

Then he sees nothing at all.

…

When Bond wakes, he's naked, lying on a cot, a thin, lumpy pillow under his head. The light is pale with the early morning hour and he can taste salt on the air, feel a faint sea breeze floating in through an open window. Adrenaline should be washing through him. He should be up and cataloging the nearest exits, searching for a weapon, not to mention some pants, but he doesn't move. He wonders if he's been given a sedative.

He hears footsteps come from somewhere behind him, and barely has the presence of mind to pull down a hand to cover himself before a face appears bent over his own, wizened and smiling widely. It's an old woman. As he watches, she removes a bandage on his side, plasters it with an odd smelling salve, and reapplies the tape.

He quickly ascertains that she cannot speak English.

Although her smile hardly wavers, they both grow impatient with the communication barrier until she slaps her hand over his mouth for a second, eyes bright, and holds up one finger before returning the way she came. Bond still can’t see what’s behind him. The placement of the bandages on his torso and the remembrances of injuries old inform him that twisting around would not be a pleasant option and, since he doesn’t seem to be in any sort of immediate danger, he takes his chances.

A few minutes later, the woman is back, bringing a much younger woman with her. She takes one look at Bond and pinkens, whirling around, away from his nakedness. When she turns back to - presumably - chastise her grandmother, she can help sneaking another look over at Bond. He holds her gaze and winks. She glares at him and then asks him what his name is.

He lies, of course, but it’s a start.

...

Bond spends three weeks in their care and empties out one of his off-book accounts of emergency money to repay them.

The next month is spent bouncing from room to room. Many of the women are taken with him, but they keep things casual. They recognize his type. Lost men with nothing to lose have washed up on their shore before, albeit perhaps not in such a literal way as Bond has. Liquor rushes through his system, keeping him permanently buzzed. His tolerance is high. His capacity for drink is higher. 

On the rare nights he doesn’t go home with someone, he takes his rest out on the beach. Those are the most dangerous nights. Buried for hours in the sand, he starts to dry out and starts to let the water creep back in. Local women out early sing mourning songs, in clear, eerie voices. They creep into his dreams. Bond wakes with fingers stinging, bloody cracks filled with sand and saltwater where he clawed at the earth in his sleep. He’s never sure if he’s trying to climb up, to escape his fate, or swim downward, closer toward her. 

One night his company tells him his eyes are the color of the sea. The color of a drowned man. 

That’s when the true tailspin begins. Scorpions and sex and sand, as much as one can take-

Until the bombing happens.

Bond’s not a complete bastard. There are others he cares about, from the agency, from past missions. _M_. He has a job to do, after all.

And he knows it's time to do what Vesper couldn't. It's time to come back to life.


End file.
